


Through Hushed Fangs, Grinning

by ofwickedlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Incest (the tiniest occurrence of Robb/Cat), Angst and Porn, Bodily Fluids, Bottom Jaime Lannister, Bottom Robb Stark, Character Study, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Gender Roles, Gift Fic, Hate Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Jaime Lannister is a shameless bottom and will not be fooled, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, POV Robb Stark, Power Dynamics, Repression, Revenge Sex, Robb Stark is a shame-filled bottom in denial, Rough Sex, Self-Denial, Self-Reflection, Shame, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 13:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17850518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: Ashamed of his true desires, Robb Stark takes the Kingslayer to bed in an attempt at revenge and power ... but it is Jaime Lannister who shows him what real power is, and where it lies.





	Through Hushed Fangs, Grinning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmaliza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Battleplans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17209262) by [emmaliza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza). 



> **Warning — be sure to check all of my tags before reading.**
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> This is a late Valentine's Day gift for the lovely Emma, who, through her wonderful gift-fic to me, proved that bottom!Jaime and bottom!Robb can coexist. Here's to you, babe. <3

* * *

 

 _I should be furious,_ Robb thought. He should be, yet whenever he was close to mustering the will, the sanity, the chains would _clink,_ so prettily amongst panting and slapping flesh, sweat and salt mixing — a song, a trance, and he would be lost again. Lost, and lone, and letting.

The Kingslayer knew this. Oh, he fucking knew. A glint graced his cat-green eyes whenever his hips would rise over Robb’s, only to fall again, bouncing on his cock in a rhythm that only the best of whores could mimic. His hole was a merciless heat, clenching and sweltering and _tight,_ and he had taken in Robb’s entire length, deep and deeper still, and Robb was fucking him. Robb was fucking _him_ , and yet …

And yet, Robb was trapped between the floor and the Kingslayer’s weight, his arms beyond his head, wrists bound by one thin hand. He had reached for the Kingslayer’s hips — to set the pace, take charge, because Robb was fucking _him,_ he was inside _him,_ it was all Robb’s decision, _his_ — but Jaime, with Robb Stark’s chains on his wrists, and Robb Stark’s cock buried in his arse, was cat-quick, lion-quick, and seized him. Before Robb could even react to the fierce strength behind those frail, starved hands, his own were slammed above his head. “I don’t recall permitting you to touch me, Stark,” the Kingslayer had said, and somehow, his voice was both laidback and authoritative. Like an order. A threat. A tendril pooled from Robb’s belly to his cock, and he’d felt empty, somehow, like he needed to filled, but it was only because he couldn’t move, couldn’t fuck the Kingslayer at the rhythm he wanted. That was all.

 _I should fight back,_ Robb knew. Yet the Kingslayer’s strong hands stayed wrapped around his wrists, pinning him there. The cell’s dirt floor met Robb’s back with a painful smack at every bounce the Kingslayer wrought upon him, and it hurt, and Robb was near helpless, this way, and he didn’t think he had ever been so hard, but still, it wasn’t enough, somehow. Somehow.

“You look like you’re in wanting, Stark.” The Kingslayer’s laugh was low and breathy, and his grin, his fucking _grin._ Like he knew something Robb didn’t. Like he _knew_ … like … “Do tell me what else you crave. I’d _so_ hate to be disappointing.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Robb snapped, and the gasp left his lips before his sneer could fade — pain spiked through his wrists, more, more as the Kingslayer clutched him, squeezed harder, _hard,_ like a murderous snake.

“Don’t talk back to me,” he said, steel in his voice, and Robb did not talk back. Their eyes locked on one another, Tully sea with Lannister verdance, and the Kingslayer’s eyes were green diamonds, shining and unbreakable and not to be challenged, and Robb was silent, waiting for … awaiting …

The green softened, and Jaime’s voice returned to teasing. “As a matter of fact,” he said, little smirk back on his full, pink lips, “Don’t talk at all.”

Somehow, Robb knew that was coming. The last bit of the order. The _true_ order, and another wave hit him, that pleasure, that emptiness. _He is tight and fast and good,_ Robb told himself. _That is all._ The Kingslayer could give all the orders he wished — it was only because Robb allowed it. He had made a woman out of the Kingslayer, was inside of him, was fucking him, and that was what mattered. _He’s a fool to think he has any power._

That laugh again. “Good pup,” he said.

Robb sneered, but said nothing. He was fucking him, and it was good. That was what mattered.

The Kingslayer arched his back, pinned Robb further to the ground with his weight, went deeper, faster, and the moan left Robb’s lips before he could catch it. He had been good at keeping them inside — almost as good as Lannister was. The Kingslayer’s pleasure was sounded through rumbled groans, like a prowling lion, deep and low and hushed, and no one could hear it, no one but Robb, and the night, and the gods. But _Robb._ His moans were as loud as his tears had felt when he’d learned of Father’s murder, and Bran’s, and Rickon’s. As unhidden as his hatred when he’d first laid eyes on the Kingslayer in chains. The Kingslayer. His enemy. Robb was inside of his enemy, and he had wrought weakness from his throat.

“You don’t need to speak,” said the Kingslayer. “Your moans reveal you more than enough. But you _want_ something.” He trailed his free hand up Robb’s thigh, swirling near his hips, and the emptiness pooled even deeper. Another moan rose from Robb’s belly, his chest, but he bit it down, and raised his hips in a savage, warning thrust. The Kingslayer’s hole was a delight, good and better when Robb moved in it, but he had been prepared for it, was hushed, whereas Lannister was not. He hissed at the surprise, back arched even more, his face twisted in shock and pleasure, and gods, the _sight._ Golden curls fell over his face, moonlight shining off them, and he was beautiful. Beautiful, even with the hunger taking him, and the chains, and the blackness of his soul. Too beautiful, like a woman. And Robb was taking him like one. He was. He was, but Lannister’s hand was going further up his hip, too close to ... _too close. Go no further,_ he wanted to say, but he had been told to keep silent —

Robb thrust up again, violently. No. The King in the North took no orders. He only remained silent because he had nothing to say, not to the Kingslayer. He was taking him as a woman, claiming him, putting him in his place, and that was it.

 _That was it._ That was it, but the Kingslayer was still touching him where he shouldn’t, up, up, up until the tip of his nail grazed the side of an ass cheek. Robb shuddered, eyelids fluttering, and Lannister caught him.

An easy smirk. “I wonder. The thing you want — is it here?” he asked, finger brushing across the cheek, splaying toward the cleft and reaching near his —

Robb’s heart skipped a beat, and the emptiness near choked him, but he raised a knee, aimed his foot at Lannister’s side —

And his wrists were free, but his ankle was taken before it could kick the Kingslayer away, and they both froze. Sharp green eyes, flawless emeralds, bore into his stare, and before Robb could react, his foot was slammed onto the ground.

A hand trapped his mouth just as Robb screamed. Pain sprung through his foot, his calf, but he was still inside of Lannister, still filling and stretching that tight hole that was swallowing him, and it was too much. He whined through the sweaty palm covering him, a moan of agony and pleasure and shame.

The Kingslayer pressed his weight on Robb’s mouth. “That’s quite enough of that,” he said, and moved again. Slow, smooth, deep, _torture._ A whimper sounded just past the fingers that clutched his face as Lannister fucked — as _Robb_ fucked _him._ Then, _faster,_ and Robb felt the end nearing, building up within him, and he needed to move. He lifted his hips, meeting Jaime’s downward thrust, just a bit, just a bit —

“Stay,” Lannister breathed harshly, and Robb stayed, hips returned to being motionless and ridden, wrists right where the Kingslayer had left them, and gods, Robb _hated_ him, he —

Even faster. Their moan was one then, one muffled with a heavy hand, the other low and wanting and _pretty,_ damn him. Then Lannister was back in control, determination killing the pleasure, and he was staring down at Robb, bouncing, taking, up, down, up, down, and fuck, _fuck._

Lannister gripped his face tighter, hand sliding across his mouth, fingers slightly pushing toward the parted crevice of Robb’s lips, and suddenly Robb was a dying man in the desert, and the fingers were water, and he was mad, and his lips opened on their own. Lannister grinned then, eyes glinting, fucking emeralds in the moonlight, canine tooth pushing into his full, luscious pink lips — a fang, a lion’s maw, and he crept his fingers inside, pushing and pressing at Robb’s tongue in the sweetest rhythm like it was the nub above a woman’s cunt, and it may as well have been, because it was _good,_ and that emptiness pooled farther, and it was an ocean within him, and as Robb looked into those evil cat eyes, he saw the command, heard it unspoken through those fangs — _suck,_ and that weak, mad part of Robb almost took him over, almost made him clasp his lips around those fingers and suck on them, let them fuck his mouth in the same way he was fucking the Kingslayer’s hole, and it would be so good, it _would_ , it —

Then the breathy, arrogant lion’s laugh came, woke Robb up, and he bit down, _hard._ Copper pooled through Robb’s mouth, streamed down inside him, filled him in a way that _almost_ filled that emptiness, almost, but no, blood couldn’t fill him, no. Still, he sunk his teeth further into those fingers, drank the red copper as Lannister grunted in shocked pain. _I have fangs too, you son of a bitch._

Lion’s blood ran down Robb’s chin, yet somehow, the grin never left Lannister’s mouth. But there was something else behind it now, besides arrogance and amusement. Yet he didn’t let go of Robb’s face. He dug his unbitten nails into Robb’s chin, his neck, the space beneath his ear, clutching, _digging,_ but Robb held on, would not relent. So the Kingslayer used that other hand, went past his hip again, to his cheek, inside the cleft, _squeezed —_

A shameful moan ran from Robb’s chest, the emptiness, and Lannister muffled it again with his bloody hand. Robb let him go with a gasp. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, hitched and quick, because the Kingslayer was still going, up and down, up and down, and —

And then Robb’s face was grabbed by a paw, lifted, _slammed,_ and his vision swam. A shocked gasp left his bloodied lips, and the room spun.

“Pups must be hard of hearing,” the Kingslayer said. “I told you to _stay,_ Stark.”

Robb’s eyes fluttered, and Lannister leaned in closer, until their chests were touching, and their noses brushed, and Lannister’s cock — his _cock_ —

Lannister moved his head to the side, underneath Robb’s ear. A tongue ran across Robb’s pulse, and he bit back a shudder. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, laughter just beneath his voice, and Robb could barely hear him — the man’s cock was rubbing against Robb’s stomach, drips of seed weeping out of the head and kissing Robb’s flesh, and the emptiness, the _emptiness_ —

“It’s no use to you, brushing against your belly, is it?” Jaime’s breath was hot on Robb’s neck, sweet-smelling like wine, and beneath the salt of his sweat was a waft of powdery soap that threatened to choke him. “You wish it were somewhere else. We both know where.” His hand caressed Robb’s arse, lovingly and sweet, and no, no, Robb didn’t want that, he was no woman, _never,_ he was the Young Wolf, the King in the North, and he was taking his enemy, putting him in his place, making a woman out of _him_ —

“You’re ashamed,” the Kingslayer said. Robb felt him smiling against his throat. “I know. But you shouldn’t be. It feels so good, pup. Let me tell you.” He pulled away from Robb then, smirk still on his face, sat up so his cock was in full view. With each stroke, each breath that Lannister rode his cock, his own length bobbed, swollen and smooth and a sheen of gold just like the rest of his skin, a silver pearl at its tip, thick and long and —

And Robb’s mouth was suddenly hollow, his tongue dry. He licked his lips before he knew it.

Lannister saw. Grinned. “In your mouth, too?” He laughed. “I don’t blame you. But that’s not where you want it most. Where you’re dying to know how it would feel.” He squeezed Robb’s arse again. “I’m bigger than you,” he said, “So I would stretch you quite far. Reach you in the depths of your belly. Fill you. That’s the best part — being filled.”

Filled. Filled, and Robb was so empty. The tendril in his belly ached to be quelled.

Even faster. Robb bit the inside of his cheek so hard he bled. Up, down, up down. Savagely, merciless. _I should be furious,_ he knew, but the chains were still clinking, clinking, and Lannister’s flesh was pure _heat,_ and, gods, _gods_ —

“You’re nearing,” Lannister knew, and then, he was outright _pounding._ Slamming down on his cock, ass so deep on him he brushed against his balls with every thrust. The moan left Robb, and he was too far gone to care — it flew from his mouth, begging.

“You think this feels good?” the Kingslayer taunted. “It’s even better when it’s inside you. When it’s filling you, and the tip of the cock brushes against that place that drives you mad.”

Robb knew that place. He knew it. Once, when he’d succumbed to his weakness, and his own fingers had —

No. He wouldn’t think of that, couldn’t, but he was so empty, and he _craved._

“You wish you were doing this,” Lannister said, his words like a spell. “You wish you were me.”

Robb clenched his fists into the dirt — he needed to grab those hips, dig his nails into them as they rode him, claim him, put him in his place, make him _his,_ but stay, he was told to _stay,_ and Jaime Lannister was so _tight,_ sliding up and down, clenching, and he _—_ he _couldn’t_ _—_

Seed spurted out of him like a shameful fountain, gushing from his cock and into Jaime’s hole, filling him, and Robb threw his head back as the spasms took him, groaned like a wounded wolf, thrust upward, even though he was told to stay, because he couldn’t help it, because it was so _good,_ and fuck, fuck, _fuck._

Robb was still trembling when he noticed Jaime had stopped his pounding, grabbed Robb’s cock and held him steady. His eyes were closed, golden lashes fluttering, and he was still, relaxed. The grin was gone — there was only pleasure, and softness, and … Robb hated to admit it, but gods, he didn’t think the Kingslayer could look like this. Like … a person. Not a beast, or a warrior, or an enemy. Only a lover, claiming his pleasure. Because that’s what he was doing. Savoring Robb’s seed that had filled him, feeling every moment, Robb could tell, and he was beautiful, and … and in that moment, Robb Stark hated him more than he ever had before. Because behind the grins, and the taunting, and the laughter, Jaime had the emptiness, too. And Robb had just sated it … for now. Damn him.

As quickly as the softness came, it vanished. Jaime opened his eyes, caught Robb’s gaze, and started again. Deep, _rough,_ but this time, he reached for his own cock, and started stroking. Robb’s eyes followed the movements, the nimble hands of gold that gripped and brushed and caressed, and his own hands felt empty. _I took him as a woman,_ Robb told himself. _I did. I did._ He had. And he still was. Jaime was riding away, eyes burning into Robb’s soul, but Robb could only watch his cock. Only wait. And want. Gods, he wanted.

Then, _then,_ Jaime’s hole clenched around Robb’s cock with a tightness so intense he was near hard again, and the Kingslayer came with a fierceness only a lion could muster. A deep, guttural growl that was somehow still pretty, and seed spewing silver through the air, and spasms, vibrating from his body and down to Robb’s cock, and gods, it was _glorious_. The seed fell onto Robb’s stomach, little clear pools of thick, salted loveliness, and Robb was exhausted, and _parched,_ and the Kingslayer’s seed glistened in the moonlight, and Robb licked his lips at the sight, and he hated Jaime Lannister. He hated him _so much._

The Kingslayer collapsed then, right onto Robb, like a man who’d had his fill of a woman. _I am the woman._ The thought came to him unbidden. But no, that couldn’t be. He had fucked Jaime Lannister. Jaime Lannister had not fucked him. And yet, Robb’s hips were aching, and were already reddened into fades of newborn bruises, and Jaime was on top of him, panting, breath wafting across Robb’s face, and was he allowed to move, now?

Jaime sighed in exhaustion, turned his head, cheek brushing Robb’s chest. A bright bloom of golden curls pillowed over Robb’s skin, soft and fluffy, and he had the queer urge to run his fingers through it. Before he could even question that fit of madness, Jaime sat up, warmth leaving Robb, and he was strangely cold. “Well,” said Lannister, and the grin was back. He gestured to the silver wet mess on both of their bellies. “Aren’t you going to clean us up?” He eyed Robb’s lips, and that smirk, that fucking _smirk._

Robb smacked him across the face so hard he split his lip, lost his balance, fell onto his chains. They rattled, an ugly sound, not hypnotic like before, and Robb’s seed was still leaking out of the Kingslayer’s hole, streaming down his thighs, silver gleaming on gold, and Robb had never felt so envious of anyone in his entire life.

Jaime was laughing, now, and keeping his ass angled like that on purpose, Robb could tell. He resisted the urge to kick him, to grip those chains and wrap them around his neck, to choke him, to roughly wake his cock with his hands and —

“Clean yourself up,” Robb muttered, not looking at him anymore. He could still feel the grin boring into his back when he put his garb back on, and when he left the dungeon, and the hall, and sat in the baths of his chamber, and cleansed himself of want and enemy and hatred. It all poured away easily, with the soap and water, fast and slick and merciful.

Not the shame, though. That would never wash off.

 

††††

 

The fourth night since fucking the Kingslayer came either too quickly or too slowly — Robb could not decide. Either way, he was heading there now. Walking through the corridors, to the dungeons, ignoring any and everything in his path. His thoughts were clouded, reeling with rage, but questions, mostly questions. He would ask, and the Kingslayer would answer. Whatever one could say about Jaime Lannister, they could not doubt his strength or fearlessness … and yet, he had allowed himself to be filled as a woman was filled, and was as shameless about it as a boy whore would be. And he had liked it. No, _loved_ it. Robb had to understand. Had to —

A flash of auburn took his senses, then a gasp.

“Robb,” said his mother, jumping.

Mother.

Coming from the directions of the dungeons. Cheeks flustered, hair unkempt, with fists closed in rage.

“Mother,” Robb frowned at her. “Are you well?”

Mother smiled at him, but her Tully blue eyes didn’t truly look his way. “I am.”

“You visited the Kingslayer.” It was not a question.

“I did,” she said, then quickly added, “To question him. He gave me nothing.”

“Did he hurt you?” There was something off about her.

Mother glanced up at him then, frowned. “Of course not. But he lies, and knows nothing but cruelty and … filth. And I …” Her eyes darkened, in embarrassment or exhaustion, Robb couldn’t tell. “I haven’t slept.”

Robb’s chest tightened at that. No, he hadn’t slept either. How could he sleep, when Father, and Bran, and Rickon, and …

Robb reached for her hand, but she pulled away from him. Before he could even process his shock, his hurt, she said, “You would see him as well?”

“Yes,” Robb said. “I’ve my own questions.”

A bitter hatred shined through Mother’s eyes, and for a breath, he did not recognize her. “You should not waste your breath on him. He will only twist your mind.”

 _But you are too late to warn me of that, Mother._ “And yet I must speak with him all the same,” he said. “Go, now. Rest. We will speak in the morning.”

She left him then, reluctantly … a bit too much so. He would see to her later. For now, he needed to … he didn’t know what.

When he opened the door to the Kingslayer’s cells, he was kneeling, chains tangled in his torso, wrists, and neck. Moonlight shined on his skin, and his face glistened with wetness — sweat? Sweat, and it was all over his mouth and cheeks. He just kneeled there quietly, licking the wetness off his lips, stroking it from his skin with fingers then sucking on them, smirking to himself. Mad. The Kingslayer was mad. Why was Robb even here?

Lannister must have heard the door creak, because his ears perked up. His smirk widened. “Cat,” he said softly, _playfully,_ in a way that made Robb clench his fists. The Kingslayer turned, emerald eyes alight with mischief and flirting, until he saw Robb. Surprise took him for a breath, before the flirting mischief returned. “Oh, not Cat. _Kitten._ ” He laughed. “My mistake. What brings you to my humble abode?”

“What did my mother want with you, Kingslayer?” Robb asked.

Lannister licked his pink lips, smiled. “What does any Queen Mother want with her son’s prisoner?” His green eyes glinted. “The same as her Wolf King, I imagine. What would you have of me?”

“You seem to already know,” Robb snapped.

Lannister shrugged. “I knew you’d be cross if I assumed.” He looked Robb up and down. “Are you going to stand up the entire time we speak? It should be me who refrains from sitting, you know. I’m still quite sore.”

“You did that to yourself,” Robb said, and cursed himself, because he just admitted it. Just said aloud who had truly fucked who that night. _I am the woman._

The Kingslayer caught it. His lion’s fang sunk into his smiling lip. “So I did.”

Robb said nothing, just glared at him, until Lannister said, “I didn’t think you one to dawdle, Stark.”

“You don’t know me, Kingslayer.”

Lannister got off his knees, sat against the wall. His eyes met Robb’s. “Come, now,” he said. “We both know that isn’t true.”

Silence.

Lannister broke it. “We both know I’m not going anywhere, Stark, but kings are rather important, are they not? I’m sure you have other things to do besides visit me. So go on, then. Ask me. It’s not as if I could refuse you.”

 _Go on,_ he’d said. _Ask me._ As if Robb needed his permission to speak. But he had, hadn’t he? _Don’t talk back to me. As a matter of fact, don’t talk at all._

Robb moved closer, closer, until he was standing over the Kingslayer, his legs level with his face. Lannister looked up at him, unfazed, if not just a tad amused. Robb wanted to smack that smirk off of his face. He saw that his lip had fully healed from where Robb struck him the first time. _I didn’t hit him hard enough._

“What game are you playing?” Robb asked, because he had to be playing one. No true man would want to be fucked like that, would crave …

Lannister seemed to read his mind. He chuckled. “The kind you _wish_ I was playing.” His eyes fell to Robb’s crotch. “Do you want me to suck your cock, then?”

It was so sudden and casual that Robb could only gawk at him, before sneering in disgust.

Lannister’s lips curved in a small smirk. “That’s the only reason you have to stand over me so. But we both know that isn’t what you want. Don’t we?”

Robb did try to hit him then. Hand raised, twitching, racing toward him —

And his wrist was caught, just like his ankle had been. But the Kingslayer didn’t hurt him, no. His grip was firm, but not savage. Robb knew he could squeeze a lot harder. Break his wrist, crunch his bones. Even starving and weakened as he was. He could probably overpower Robb, if he wished. Throw him down and snap his neck, but not before fucking him bloody, taking him as a woman, pushing and ramming inside of him —

Robb scowled, tried to snatch his hand out of Lannister’s grip, but he was unyielding. Green eyes bore into his, glittering. “There’s no need for any of this, is there?” he asked, and when Robb said nothing, he sighed. “And I thought Lannisters were stubborn. Sit down, Pup.”

Robb’s free hand was around his throat before he could register it. “Do _not_ call me that,” he said, coldly.

Lannister’s stare was unwavering. “Oh,” he said, and he only _slightly_ sounded like he was being choked. “So it’s one of those bedchamber names? I understand. Cersei has those for me, too.”

Robb blinked. “What?”

“Cersei,” the Kingslayer said. “The Queen. My twin that I’ve been fucking since long before you were born. _That_ Cersei. She calls me names in bed that I would not appreciate being referred to at any other time.” He grabbed Robb’s hand, yanked it away from his throat in a way that was far too easy. _Just how strong is he?_

Robb could only blink at him. “ _What?_ ”

The Kingslayer looked lost between annoyance and amusement. “If you sit down, you can hear the story.” He gestured to the corner.

Robb walked in the opposite direction, and he could practically feel Lannister’s eyes rolling. By the time Robb had turned back around, he’d caught the Kingslayer wiping at his face, licking the rest of his sweat off his fingers.

Robb frowned at him. “Speak, Kingslayer.”

His mouth twitched. “ _Kingslayer._ No, that’s not what she calls me. She’s never called me that, in fact, whether we’re fucking or no. But when we’re abed, she calls me what she would a woman. ‘My Lady,’ mostly.” He took one finger, sucked and licked at it, until it was clean. “And when she’s feeling _especially_ naughty, I am a slut, or a bitch, or whatever womanly terms strikes her fancy.” Lannister’s green eyes were laughing. “That makes it more real, you see, when she fucks me with her fingers, or her fake cock she’d had delivered from Essos. It makes her feel like she’s a man, taking his woman as he pleases. And me?” He chuckled. “Well, I like being taken.”

Robb balked at that. “You lie.” He had nearly forgotten how perverted this monster was, a vile creature that took his own sister to bed and put three abominations on her, but surely, _surely_ even with the incest, he would never stoop so low as to …

The Kingslayer shrugged. “Lannisters lie, but not about this.”

Robb studied him. He was so casual in his stance, as nonchalant as he was when he’d confessed to crippling Bran, to fathering Cersei’s bastards. He spoke true. Him and his sister Cersei, they would …

Robb shook his head in disbelief, sneered at him. “You’re disgusting,” he said. “A degenerate.”

He just smiled. “Am I? Cersei and I are one. Two halves of one soul. If Cersei is a woman, then so am I. And if I’m a man, so is she. It’s natural for us to switch and share carnal desires. I rather like playing the part of a woman, just as she loves being the man. But there are many times where she wants me inside of her, and I need her, too, and I fill her as any other man would fill a woman — obviously, since she bore my seed thrice.” Lannister tilted his head, golden curls falling in his eyes. “You have no twin sister giving you these desires,” he said, sweetly. “What’s your excuse?”

Robb’s nails dug into his palm. “You claim to be so loyal and loving to your sister,” he said, “But you never once fought me, did you? You let me fuck you, as she fucks you.” His sneer deepened. “You have no loyalty. No honor, not even a twisted version of it. You are sad and lost and pathetic, and as mad as the king you betrayed.”

The grin died then, and for the first time since the Whispering Wood, Robb Stark was victorious against Jaime Lannister. He didn’t feel victorious, though. Not as he stared in those angry green eyes, storming and flashing, brightened and wild. The Kingslayer was silent, though. Silent, and watching, with his jaw tight, and his arms stiff.

Then his lips fell back into easiness, and he leaned over to Robb, slowly. Somehow, Robb didn’t have the urge to fight it. He sat there, let Jaime place a hand on his cheek, meet his lips with his, and it was the first time they had ever done it, but they kissed. They kissed, slow, then more, and their tongues graced each other in one deep dance, swirling and playing, and Jaime’s _taste._ It was strange. Bitter, tangy — the sweat he’d licked before, Robb supposed, but he misliked it. He misliked it, but the Kingslayer’s lips were soft, and his tongue was clever, and —

Robb pulled away. “Enough.”

That grin was back on Lannister’s mouth, bright and playful, like he’d won. Again. “See? You’re understanding it now. It’s _you_ who give the orders, in this moment, and every other moment when we’re not pleasuring each other, because you are a _man,_ a king — for now, anyway. That’s how it works, Stark. Naked and hard, you’re a pup who craves a master and a good cock to fill you, but clothed, you are the wolf. Act like one.”

Robb was tempted to stand above him again, shove his cock down that gold lion throat, and show him that he was king, _all_ the time. But he knew he didn’t want that, and, worst of all, he knew the _Kingslayer_ knew that he didn’t want that.

So he didn’t do that. Instead, he stood, turned away. “You don’t know me, Kingslayer,” he muttered, leaving before he could see those glittering green eyes that proved that Jaime Lannister did know him, after all.

 

††††

 

On the eighth night since fucking the Kingslayer, he was near mad from restlessness.

Robb turned underneath his sheets, sighing. He hadn’t been able to sleep, since they’d last spoken. Since Robb’s truths and shame had been laid before him by the vilest monster to ever come into his family’s life. Since Robb had realized … accepted that he wanted …

 _I would stretch you quite far,_ the Kingslayer had said. _Reach you in the depths of your belly. Fill you._ Fill him. Fill him, and Robb was so empty. He wanted to be fucked. Gods help him, he _needed_ it.

The Kingslayer had needed it too. He had arched his golden back, hips rolling, panting and grinning and moaning and loving every second of riding Robb’s cock, every moment that he’d humiliated Robb by somehow managing to fuck him while being the one fucked.

And Jaime _had_ fucked Robb. He had. Robb could admit it to himself now. Could admit to himself that he had liked it — being fucked, ridden, taken. Taken, and taken _thoroughly,_ even though he was the one doing the filling, instead of being filled himself. He had still been claimed, still been owned and ordered, but it wasn’t enough. Not Jaime’s hole, and not Robb’s fingers. Fingers couldn’t fill him. He needed —

He shook his head at the thought. Wanting to be fucked … it was the truth, one he could hide from no longer, despite the sickness it left in his belly. And he even thought that _perhaps_ the Kingslayer was not completely wrong when he said that it did not make one a woman or weak or wrong to crave it — as despicable as Jaime Lannister was, no one could deny his strength or manhood — but, to let the _Kingslayer_ fuck him? Enter him, stretch him far, reach into the depths of his belly? It was one thing to let Jaime ride his cock, but to be on the receiving end with the man who had hurt his little brother …

 _But I’ve already betrayed Bran, haven’t I?_ The thought came unbidden. Cruel, and agony, and true.

Robb bit the inside of his cheek, deep until he tasted blood, until the thought was washed away by pain. No. No, he couldn’t think of that, not ever again.

He couldn’t let Jaime fuck him. No. There must be someone else, one of his subjects or bannermen that he could trust. One that would never forsake him. Must be. But even still, he found himself rising from his bed, and walking to the Kingslayer’s cell. Walking, and not thinking, because if he were, he would have stayed in bed. There was nothing the Kingslayer could offer him. Nothing. Nothing, and yet he kept going. Kept going until he was in the dungeons. Kept going until he was at the door, waiting for the silence to greet him —

But there was no silence.

There was a groan. A deep, guttural, pained groan, and chains clinking.

So, the Kingslayer was touching himself, then. Robb knew he should have turned away, should have left in disgust, but he couldn’t help but wonder — was Jaime stroking his cock, or fucking himself? Thinking of Cersei’s fake cock, or her fingers or cunt, or Robb’s real cock — the cock that entered him eight nights ago, had stretched him and filled him with seed that reached in his belly and spilled out of his hole …? Between Robb’s legs, his cock began to awaken.

Robb did turn away then. This was foolish. He shouldn’t —

Just as he took a step, there was another moan.

A ragged, throaty, strained moan, one of either pain or pleasure.

A woman’s moan.

And there was only one woman with access to the Kingslayer’s cells.

Robb burst through the door, lost between terror and rage — gods, his mother, the Kingslayer had hurt his mother, he was so stupid to let his guard down, so —

But no.

There was no hurt.

Not at all.

Lady Catelyn Stark sat in the moonlight, pretty face scrunched in a twist of hate and lust, gasping as she clutched the chains, pulled them up and toward her naked breasts, rolled her hips over her chair.

Her chair being Jaime Lannister’s face.

And Jaime lay underneath her crushing thighs, obedient and humble, lapping and breathing and devouring her cunt. Clear rivers streamed from her pink flesh and onto his face, oozing and gushing, drowning him, and Robb was right, he did have a clever tongue. He slurped and sucked, humming, consuming, and it was a wonder he was able to swallow her wetness, or even breathe, what with the way his chain was wrapped around his neck, coiling tighter and tighter the more Lady Catelyn pulled. But still he managed, though Robb could see that the more Catelyn pulled, the more silver pearled at the tip of his hard, ready cock, and the deeper his nails dug into the ground. _Stay,_ Jaime had told him, all those nights ago. Robb’s mother had given the Kingslayer his own order.

And Robb couldn’t even be angry. Not really. Because for all the lies the Kingslayer had spewed from the lips that kissed and licked his mother’s cunt, he did not lie about this.

 _What did my mother want with you, Kingslayer?_ he had asked.

And he was given the answer. _The same as her Wolf King, I imagine._

Though, Jaime was wrong about one thing. They may be using the same prisoner, but the Wolf King and Queen Mother most certainly did not share carnal desires. _She is more man than I,_ thought Robb as he watched his mother ride and smother the Kingslayer’s face with no resistance from him as he licked and pleased, and the hysterical laugh left him before he could catch it.

Mother caught it, though. “Robb!” she screamed, jumping off of Jaime and reaching for her dress to hide her shame. _But we both live in shame, Mother._

Jaime Lannister was not ashamed, though. He rose from where he lay — he could move if he wanted now, Robb knew, he and his mistresses’ deeds had been interrupted, he no longer had orders to follow, he was a lion untamed now, and Catelyn Stark, the freer of his chains — and met glittering emerald eyes with Robb, licked his lips, grinned. Grinned, grinned through those horrid fangs, and his mother’s juices, and a hushed, breathy laugh.

“Ahh,” he said, like his thirst had just been quenched like no other, “ _Pup._ Have you reflected on our talk, then?” Moonlight reflected off his drenched, beautiful face, shiny clearness mixed with gold, covering his face like sweat. _Sweat._ Sweat, and suddenly, Robb knew what he had tasted on the Kingslayer’s tongue, the other night. Not sweat. _Not sweat,_ and though he had lost at the Whispering Wood, Jaime Lannister reclaimed his victory here, in the bowels of the dungeons, naked, no sword, no armor, with his arsehole stretched wider than all the rivers in his mother’s homeland, and a mouth graced with an essence only Eddard Stark should have known.

“Yes,” Robb said, numbly. _I should be furious,_ he thought. But he _had_ reflected on their talk, and the Kingslayer was right. Men were men regardless of what they did or didn’t do with their cocks, or arseholes, or anything else. Only a man could outplay another man in this way. Only a man could let himself be fooled like this.

And only a traitorous lion could be a predator while feigning to be prey.

 

 

 


End file.
